Art of a Master
by ImpastaMan
Summary: In Ludwig's slumber, Feliciano decides he wants to prove he's not built for fighting - that his delicate hands are for the Canvas. (Hinted GerIta.)


"You just need to be quiet, Feli..."

A soft whisper slipped through the cracked lips of the Italian, his figure heaving a plethora of paints in his arms. The floor boards let out low groans as his bare feet came in contact with each plank, his sight never leaving his target. Feliciano breathed, observing the constant rays of light that glistened through the panes and dragged across the floor; lousily lighting half of the sleeping subject.

A fleeting grunt passed through the room, promptly grabbing the Italian's attention to twist his head toward him to find that he had changed his position. His concern was on the posture of the object shuffling under the sheets, his back to the mattress and his arms flung to the side. Perfect. His dishevelled champagne hair matted against his forehead and shielding those pretty lapis orbs that held such a heavy weight of anger, creased by the knot in his brow.

Normally, that is, tonight he held such a soft, delicate and relaxed expression; like the world around him fell momentarily into a state of composure. Feliciano took a moment to drink up this new emotion, he'd never seen his friend in such a way, he'd always been barking and tetchy toward this peers. Though, putting that happy thought aside he shifted the covers off him, revealing a built torso that he'd seen frequently; a dusted fluster hid behind the moonlight. He ran his hands over his work space after setting the paints on the side, feeling all the dips and scars that lined his beautiful physique and resisting the raw desire to place kisses over the blemishes and in-perfections.

A fresh dip of water was prepared, a paintbrush stained with a deep crimson ready to be applied. He picked it up between his fingers, running it over the top of his torso – hoping not to disturb his deep sleep. Of course, he wasn't doing this for the sake of it, there was a point to this to show him something. To _prove_ something to him. His hands aren't rugged like his, nor his frame or himself. He wasn't build for fighting, he wasn't prepared to fight. He was Feliciano Vargas, and he wasn't builtfor fighting, he was built for intelligence. He just hoped that concept was easy enough for him to understand, that he could never be half the man that he was – even though it upset him to admit so.

The warmth of the brush soon departed and was perched behind his ear, pushing a lock of his own loose chestnut wisps behind the brush. He had a few hours at best to complete his task, even though this seemed like a monumental amount of time to finish up, clean and escape, it was in fact, hardly enough. An artist takes time, an artist takes care, an artist understands their hiccups but does not thwart themselves. An artist strives to finish, even if the outcome is something they're not happy with, they know that it's one step closer to improvement; and that's all they really need.

Feliciano understood he never made mistakes, only 'happy accidents' as an artist has to work with their trip-ups. Just like now, his ombre of a deep crimson to a gentle yellow had failed on it's part, smudging and making more of a swirl of colour on his dark complexion. He lifted the paintbrush back from the perch on his ear, lowering it down; trailing it over his torso. He had full control over his actions, sweeping the thin prickles of hair through the paint to smooth it out, creating one of the most prepossessing sights he'd ever witnessed.

.

He hated waiting, that was more of an understatement, he _despised_ it – though it was a key factor every artist has to posses in to have success in painting. His patience had run dry, his ears registering a faint pattering noise from outside. He hauled himself over the sleeping man, swinging his legs over the bed and gripping onto the windowsill, watching as the steady pace of rain became heavier, blurring the outside world. He sighed, even though he appreciated nature's arts, he could not have the talent of it, since every move it made was just...perfect. His grip tightened, his nails scraping at the marble support, twisting his head back.

He'd waited long enough, he removed himself from the window; he'd engage in it's entice later. He straddled just above his hips, leaning down with the thin wood back in his hand; dragging it across his brawny frame. Thin, bold lines of dark grey had intertwined with the set paint, trailing each one off and making them conspicuous slender branches. It soon found the form of a tree, a small Mockingbird nesting in a low branch; in an abstract state.

He moved his brush delicately back to the top, sketching some loose birds and adding the detail with small flicks of his wrist. Once pleased, he signed the very edge where the paint ceased to move on – clearing his supplies up and shutting the door with a soft click.

.

"Feliciano!" A loud cry came from a nearby bedroom, he knew the consequences already. He was reluctant to present himself, guilt suddenly washing over him realizing he never asked consent. It wasn't until another booming bark that he picked up the pace and peeked his head round the door,

"Yes, Ludwig?" In front of him was his canvas sat up, his hand gripping on his phone and his face creased with rage.

"You know what you've done."

"Yes, I do."

"What do you have to say for yourself then?" Ludwig was trying to not act so surprised, the small Italian usually had a excessive amount of apology to spout whilst he endured his shouting, but something was off today.

Feliciano said nothing, only leaving the room to return with a ringed out cloth, straddling him again and starting to wipe off the paint.

"That was just a waste of time, Feliciano." That stung.

"Didn't you like it?" He questioned, turning the cloth over.

"No, well, Yes, it was beautiful but there was no point to it, it won't get you anywhere."

"Neither will training."

"Excuse me?"

The smaller male look a shaky breath, he never wanted to say it to him, more so he hoped Ludwig had the intellectual capacity to figure out his moral.

"I-I can't be strong, no matter how much you try. I can never be like you, an-and I'm sorry for that. The only thing I'm good at is what I enjoy, and I-I thought I might as well appreciate the strength you h-have." His breathing had quivered, tears spilling on the ruined artwork,

"Feli, don't be silly, you can be strong. You just have to try harder." Ludwig had some sympathy for the small Italian, he didn't expect to have woken up with this at first but he could offer him pity. The two stayed in silence, the rain leaving it's last essence on the cool glass. The sun shone through, illuminating the last of the art work before all that was left was the faint remains.

"No, no I can't." He bit his lip sharply, a few drops of blood rolling down his jaw.

"Yes you can," Ludwig gently cupped his face, connecting their eyes, "You just keep telling yourself you're weak when you're really not, sure you're not like me and probably never will be, but you're strong in your own way," A warm smile found it's way through the anger on the German's face, Feliciano was wondering if this entire show was pointless, "If you're worth anything later, you're worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it's grass in the beginning."

* * *

After seeing a headcanon about this, I felt the need to write it. I had trouble writing it and I'm not happy with the outcome over all, but I hope anyone reading enjoyed it!

 _'If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning.' -Vincent van Gogh_


End file.
